lost in the labyrinth of my mind

Chapter 11

All Max's instincts were to avoid the incoming blasts; she had to remind herself that her task was to die to get out of the game. But after three attacks, the pixelated figure just stood there with a blank expression as much as it could with an already blank face.

Max kept bouncing up.

The next enemy was a taller figure with fuzzy and pixelated hair. She started to throw pins at her, but they didn't hurt as much as they left stings and feelings of worthlessness.

Buts just like the megaphone attacks, they stopped very shortly afterwards.

Max kept bouncing up.

It didn't matter how many times the pins went through her or how many megaphone blasts she took: Max was still alive with full hearts. And the end of the above platform won't come any nearer. If she looked below where she began wouldn't even speck on the floor.

Max kept bouncing up.

Max kept bouncing up, and her legs were stiff.

Max kept bouncing up, and her lungs burned.

Max kept bouncing up, and her hair became whips, slashing across her face.

Max kept bouncing up, and she rolled an ankle.

Max kept bouncing up, and her arms grew limp.

Max kept bouncing up, and she reached the top.

Max reached the top and heard a congratulatory cheer grow sour as the letters above flashed her imperfect score.

Max was barely standing when all her enemies flew up to her and dragged her to the edge.

Max was at the edge when she was let go over the miles below.

She falls.

She's back at the Arcade.

She tries a new game.

It was nothing like the world from her game. That world had been all forests, valleys, and mountain ranges. Not this desert. Dry cracking winds, beating sun, and sweat in a syrupy descent from her neck. The endless landscape blending into the sky creates a claustrophobic effect while being in the open. She rolled forward, hearing the crunch of rocks and dirt underneath the wheels of her skateboard. She looked around at her competition. Pixeled face abomination with glitching limbs, though they had no face, she could imagine them smiling ominously, with mocking eyes. In front of her, a glitching referee in black and white waved his flag. Every time he did so, words flashed above him. Ready. Set. Go. Trumpets blared, and she zoomed forward.

She kept zooming through twisting terrains over ramps and ravines. Her competition dwindled. But she didn't care: she was winning. This was the wrong game. She couldn't get to Lucas to the true enemy here. All she could hope for was to end the game by crossing the finish line and exiting the scorching desert.

But the race continued even after her last competition was gone.

The sun continued to beat down her neck. Sweat continued to run down her back, sticking to her shirt. She kept skating, putting one foot down to keep pushing forward to nothing.

There was nothing but an endless track and cheers belonging to no one but ghosts of the desert. Bleeding feet and bloodshot eyes.

Before comes a large as fuck ramp leading to a faraway cliff's edge. It should be impossible, but still, her feet push forward: gaining momentum that could only lead to her becoming flat as pizza when she inevitably plummets to her death.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to go to her false death. She hasn't died in a game before. Maybe, it was because she was supposed to be here. Not like Lucas. Who only followed her into this demise because she was a stupid little girl who couldn't bear to be alone for a moment longer. But look at her now! She was going to her inevitable end with no one but her ghosts.

The music picks up as she reaches the ramp. She bends her knees, closes her eyes and jumps.

Her body, from her ankles to her shoulders, reverberates from the impact. She opens her eyes in shock: she did it. It is not a victory: it just means continuing the useless track and being stuck here.

A screech is the only warning she gets before pain consumes her. Blasting music plays, she's on the dusty floor of the desert, but at least she's off her feet. Her sight is blurry, and her head is splitting. She looks at the offending source of the music. It's a blue Camaro. She smiles an ironic smile: it probably looks more like a grimace, a wild thing. She always thought that car would be her end, but she always thought she would be inside it.

She cackles.

She fades.

She's back at the Arcade.

She tries a new game.

The second Game is a street fighting game. Max has to fight Billy to save Lucas. She only has her speed and fists, and Billy has the nail bat.

Lucas. But it's not him: is it? Lucas is dead, and everything has been a fruitless attempt to avenge his death to make up for her decision or make him come here. Fake-Lucas is sitting with hands bound and gagged by a dirty rag. He seemed bored and soulless, but she could imagine the Real Lucas fighting to be freed, kicking and shouting through the muffling rag.

But it chills Max to her core; it drives fear and grief. Shaky hands and stuttering breath to see the other person in the room.

Billy. Just like the last time she saw him alive. A white wife beater stained with black blood. Sweaty and matted hair. Hair he once took great pride in, much to Neil's chagrin. Tears clouded his mean eyes. But it was him.

Her eyes begin to sting, anger-maybe, grief-for sure. But Billy has Lucas tied up. Billy has always been Lucas' greatest danger. He has always been her biggest hurt.

If this is the closest: she'll get to avenge Lucas, to save Lucas, even a poor copy of him: cruelty is the only way to call it. To have to come back here to, what, fight Billy. The last time, while thrilling at the end to finally have Billy fear her, It couldn't be more distressing. To be faced with her helplessness and that lucky syringe. Of seeing Billy's violence in full glory, she hated it. She hated him. She wanted to be rid of his memory.

She's tired of fighting. Of fruitless fighting. What's the point?

But she readies her fists anyway.

Billy doesn't. He raises that fucking nailbat. She rushes him before Billy can attack her. Just like in the first game, Max has enhanced speed. But she knows it won't be enough against Billy's fury, the hits of the bat, and her growing despair.

One. Two. Fists hit Billy's side. She backs away. He swings. She dodges, the bat cracking the air, barely missing the tips of her hair. Three. Four. A kick to his shin. A kick in the knee. He knocks the wind out of her with a surprise hit to her middle. She stumbles back, almost tripping on the worn-out carpeting.

Max steadies her fists. She watches Billy's movement, and Billy bounces up and down like a boxer. They circle one another, wolves preying on weakness. Billy moved first. He charged at her, but she sidestepped him, ending behind him. She elbowed his back and kicked the back of his thighs. He tripped. She could always read his body, the way his jaw clenched, the stiffness of his shoulders, and worse, when he acted completely calm before he lost any sense of control. Billy's fury boiled.

He ignored her and stalked towards Lucas. Max jumped on his back: a perverse parody of the piggyback rides he once gave her at the beginning of their relationship, back when there was hope. It was less a piggyback ride and more bull riding. Maintaining balance on a chaotic and violent creature: whose only world is violence. Max uses one arm to strangle him and the other to keep hitting his chest in desperate attempts to keep him away from Lucas.

The air gets knocked out of her. Paralyzed by Billy's weight on top of her. Both of them on their backs, Billy crushing her. And still her arms around his neck: choking him. Tears stream down her face, free as the sweat from exertion and anguish to wanting to be done. She wants out.